Many a Tear Has To Fall: A tale of love and new beginnings in 1950s Liverpool

By June Francis

Will a new romance only lead to more heartbreak?

With her modelling career in tatters and her long-term relationship with her sailor boyfriend at an end, Maggie Gregory returns to her family in Liverpool to decide what to do with the rest of her life.

A chance encounter with a handsome stranger offers the possibility of new romance, but is the man who calls himself Tim Murphy really all he seems, and what secrets has he been keeping from Maggie?

An engaging saga of love and family, perfect for fans of Pam Howes and Kitty Neale.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Canelo Severn House
• Release date: Feb 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9781788638838

June Francis

June Francis’ introduction to stories was when her father came home from the war and sat her on his knee and told her tales from Hans Christian Anderson. Being a child during such an austere period, her great escape was the cinema where she fell in love with Hollywood movies, loving in particular musicals and Westerns. Years later, after having numerous articles published in a women's magazine, she knew that her heart really lay in the novel and June has been writing ever since.

Book preview

Many a Tear Has To Fall by June Francis

One

London: February 1959

‘You’re not going out in this, are you, dear? You sound a bit rough.’

Maggie Gregory glanced at her landlady and said hoarsely, ‘I’ve no choice, Mrs Cooling. I’ve had no phone call saying the photoshoot has been cancelled. Anyway, it’s indoors and it won’t take me long to get there.’

‘You wrap up well. You could certainly do with a warmer scarf than that one you’re wearing, however pretty it is.’ The older woman’s eyes brightened. ‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll lend you my mother’s old scarf. It’s real cashmere and is as soft and warm as anything! You don’t want to end up with pneumonia.’ She bustled away.

Maggie considered not waiting for Mrs Cooling to return, worried about being late. Her chest hurt when she breathed and she found herself praying that she wouldn’t end up with a bad dose of bronchitis like last year. Despite the Clean Air Act becoming law after the Great Smog in 1952, which had killed thousands of people in London, the capital still suffered from pea-soupers when cold, damp and a lack of wind combined together. She leaned back against the lobby wall and closed her eyes, promising herself an evening at the theatre as soon as she felt fit. A fellow Liverpudlian, and a student at the Central School of Speech and Drama, had recommended a revue, Blue Magic, at the Prince of Wales theatre, starring Tommy Cooper and Shirley Bassey.

‘Here you are, dear!’

Maggie opened her eyes at the sound of her landlady’s voice and forced a smile. ‘You are good to me,’ she said.

‘Well, I promised my former lodger Liverpool actress Dorothy Wilson, and your brother Jared, that I’d take care of you. Now undo the top buttons of your coat and I’ll make sure this scarf is wrapped nice and snug about your chest,’ Mrs Cooling said. ‘I well remember when I was a little girl my mother rubbing goose grease on my chest in the winter. Not that we had a goose every Christmas, only when Dad had a bonus.’ She buttoned up Maggie’s coat and patted her shoulder. ‘Now you take care. Use your other scarf to cover your mouth so you won’t be breathing in so much of that filthy stuff outside – and if you don’t mind my saying so, dear, it’s time you gave up the ciggies.’ She wagged a finger in Maggie’s face. ‘Not only are they bad for your chest, but smoking ages the skin. You’re only nineteen and you don’t want to be looking ten years older than you are when you reach thirty.’

Maggie refused to believe that the ciggies would age her skin that swiftly, but thanked her for the advice. She had tried to stop smoking after her older brother, Jared, and sister, Dot, had gone on about it being bad for her health, but her resolve had only lasted a few days. Still, she did appreciate Mrs Cooling’s concern.

As Maggie left the boarding house she paused at the top of the steps and eased back her shoulders, recalling her mother saying: Shoulders back, head high. If you want to be seen to your best advantage, you mustn’t slouch!

Maggie felt a lump in her throat just thinking about her mother but, blinking back tears, she tugged up the silk scarf so that it covered her mouth and breathed shallowly, knowing that if she breathed any deeper it might trigger a coughing bout. She descended the steps and attempted to cheer herself up by telling herself that at least the visibility was not as bad as it had appeared from inside the lodging house. She wasted no time heading towards Gloucester Road Tube station and the Piccadilly line, to catch a train that would take her to the studio in Soho.

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‘That’s a bad cough you’ve got there,’ said Charlie, the photographer, handing Maggie her wrap. ‘When you finish here you should go straight home, make yourself a hot toddy and get to bed.’

Maggie felt too weary to say that was what she intended doing, so simply nodded and warmed herself by the two-bar electric fire. Then she went behind a screen and removed the one-piece bathing costume and put on a polka-dot bikini in daffodil yellow and white, draping the matching short, sleeveless wrap with its frilled edging over a shoulder.

She thought of last summer and the lovely russet tweed swagger coat that she had modelled for a winter collection, and how she had sweltered beneath the lights. She wished she was wearing it right now, but that was magazine modelling for you.

‘Wow! You look great in that bikini,’ said Charlie, his eyes lighting up as she came from behind the screen.

‘Thanks, my sister and brother are always saying I could do with more meat on me. They don’t understand the modelling business. I just wish I was basking on a sunny beach abroad right now,’ she said hoarsely.

‘Save your pennies and we could go together,’ he suggested.

She drew in a painful breath. ‘You know I’ve got someone, Charlie. Otherwise I’d take you up on your offer,’ she said, adopting the pose he had suggested earlier and allowing the wrap to dangle from her fingertips onto the scattering of sand that sat against a backdrop of painted sea, palm trees, and a dazzling sun in a clear blue sky.

‘But you hardly ever see him,’ protested Charlie. ‘Now hold that pose.’

Maggie remained perfectly still, thinking of Norman Marshall, who was a marine engineer and away at sea for months on end. She had not heard from him since the end of November, and that was worrying, especially as Jared’s wife, Emma, had written in her Christmas card that Norman’s twin brother, Pete, had married his on-off, long-time girlfriend, Peggy McGrath, the week before Christmas. Apparently they were living with the twins’ mother, Gertie Marshall, in Bootle. Maggie had tried to convince herself that the all-important Christmas card to her from Norman had gone missing in the post. What with him working on a BP tanker, he sailed thousands of miles to far-distant lands in his job. She had hoped to receive a Valentine card last week, but she had looked in vain for its arrival and could not help but feel hurt and worried. So much so that she had even thought of writing to his twin, Pete.

Last time she had seen Norman had been at the beginning of September, when they had met up in Chatham, Kent. Then he had still been full of the news that his twin, who worked in a shipping office in Liverpool, had not only broken up with Peggy yet again but that she had disappeared. So it had come as something of a shock to hear from Emma that the couple were now married. Did Norman know? He had written twice since last she had seen him, but the letters had been brief and with no mention of his twin. It would have been nice to have a double wedding, just like Maggie’s brother and sister had done, but that was definitely out of the question now. She remembered how Norman had kissed her with real passion when they had last parted. She had been convinced he could not bear to let her go and had expected him to ask her to marry him. Although he had never actually said those three little magic words, ‘I Love You’, to her, she had felt certain that he did.

‘Have you gone into a trance?’ asked Charlie, interrupting her thoughts. ‘This is the third time I’ve spoken to you.’

‘Sorry,’ mouthed Maggie, wanting nothing more than to get back to her digs and burrow beneath the bedcovers with a hot-water bottle, a hot toddy and a couple of Aspros.

‘D’you want to make us a coffee?’ asked Charlie.

She shook her head, thinking he had a nerve asking, knowing she wasn’t feeling well. But that was men for you, thinking only of themselves. ‘I want to get home before the smog worsens,’ she whispered, and went behind the screen.

Her fingers trembled as she got changed, thinking that there were some exceptional men out there; her father, for one. He had cosseted her when she was a little girl and encouraged her to believe that she could do anything if she had enough faith in herself. That was before he had caught the muscle-wasting disease and oh, how he had suffered during the last few years of his life. He had been kind, thoughtful, and so brave. It had been frightening watching him gradually weaken and fade away.

A shaky sigh escaped her as she finished changing into her own clothes. Ten minutes later she re-emerged from behind the screen, muffled up in scarves, hat and coat. ‘See you again,’ she said, blowing Charlie a kiss as she opened the studio door and went out.

Despite the smog, she was able to find her way to the nearest Tube station and catch a train to Gloucester Road. As she left the station she felt exhausted, and tried to comfort herself with the thought that she did not have far to go. The ringing noise made by her high-heeled boots on a pavement slippery with moisture echoed strangely, and she felt in danger of losing her bearings due to the smog.

She came to a corner. Was this where she turned? She was aware of the shadowy shapes of people passing by; she would have asked directions but they vanished so quickly. She was finding it more difficult to breathe and her chest ached with the cold, despite being well wrapped up. Feeling even more weary than earlier, she stopped and rested against some wrought-iron railings and closed her eyes. She would count to fifty and then move on.

A few moments later she heard a door opening, then footsteps and a clang, as if a latch had been lifted. She caught a whiff of Old Spice aftershave and then heard a match being struck and cigarette smoke tickled her nostrils. Her chest wheezed and she coughed.

‘Who’s there?’ The man’s voice was sharp. ‘Mrs Sinclair, is that you?’

Maggie wondered if she was imagining that hint of a Liverpool accent as a figure loomed up close by. She decided it was time she moved, but had only taken a couple of steps when her feet slid from beneath her and she fell heavily on to the pavement. As she lay there gasping, she heard hurrying footsteps.

A woman cried out, ‘Is that you, laddie? I’m sorry to be late but it’s this bloody smog!’

‘Stay right where you are, Mrs Sinclair!’ ordered the man. ‘There’s someone on the ground! Be careful you don’t trip over them.’

Maggie managed to lift her head. ‘Please help me?’ she said hoarsely.

A man’s face hovered a few inches above her own and blue eyes gazed into hers. ‘Are you all right, queen? Here, let me give you a hand up.’ Maggie noticed he was wearing a trilby and a checked scarf about his throat. ‘Mrs Sinclair, perhaps you could help? You take one side and I’ll take the other.’

Between them they managed to hoist Maggie to her feet. ‘Don’t let me go!’ she croaked, clinging onto them as her feet threatened to slide from beneath her again.

‘It’s all right! We’re not going to let you fall,’ said the man.

‘You don’t think she’s been drinking, do you?’ said Mrs Sinclair.

He sniffed. ‘She doesn’t smell of it.’

‘I haven’t!’ wheezed Maggie, shivering.

‘She doesn’t sound well. I think she needs to get warm and have a sit-down,’ said the man. ‘D’you think you can cope with her, Mrs Sinclair? Make her a cup of tea. I’m a bit behind and I have to get cracking. You know how it is.’

‘Indeed, I do. I just hope she hasn’t got this flu that’s going around. Is the wee laddie asleep?’

‘Yeah! Here’s the key.’

Maggie felt him remove his hand from her arm and sensed him hand over the key. Then he vanished into the swirling smog.

‘Come on, let’s get you inside,’ said the woman briskly. ‘Can you manage the steps? There’s four going down.’

Maggie nodded, and somehow she managed to descend the steps to the basement flat without falling. She was aware that Mrs Sinclair turned a key in the lock and pushed open a door. She ushered Maggie inside and closed the door behind them.

A shivering Maggie gazed about her. The room was lit by a single electric bulb hanging from a low ceiling and a fire glowed in a black-leaded grate protected by a fireguard; on the hob stood a blackened kettle.

‘You go and sit down while I make us a brew,’ said Mrs Sinclair.

Maggie managed to make her way over to a sofa, and only then did she realise that there was a boy covered by an army blanket lying there. His eyes were closed and he was clutching a Dinky car. Cautiously Maggie sat at the foot of the sofa, not wanting to wake him.

‘So what’s your name?’ Mrs Sinclair asked.

Maggie’s gaze shifted from the boy’s face, to that of the woman who had thrust the kettle onto the fire and was now putting milk in cups.

‘Margaret Gregory.’ She hesitated. ‘That man?’

‘What about him?’

‘Is he from Liverpool?’

‘Recognised the accent, did you? You have a hint of it yourself.’

Maggie grimaced. ‘I thought I’d got rid of it after having elocution lessons.’

‘I have an ear for accents.’ Mrs Sinclair removed the steaming kettle from the fire with a folded cloth and poured water into a teapot.

‘So are you on your own in London or did you come with friends?’ asked Mrs Sinclair, lowering herself into a shabby armchair by the fire, still wearing her coat and hat.

‘On my own, but there are other Scousers living in this area. I never thought when I came south I’d be glad to hear the accent,’ Maggie said hoarsely, drawing her scarf more snugly about her neck. She took another sip of her tea before adding, ‘I’ve heard some say it’s an ugly accent, but I don’t think it’s that bad. Besides, it would be unrealistic to expect every visitor to London to talk BBC English.’

‘That’s true. I’m from Perth and have lived here for over thirty years, and folk can still tell I’m from over the Border. How long have you been in London, Miss Gregory?’

‘Nearly three years.’ They had been difficult years at times, Maggie thought to herself, not at all like the life in London she’d imagined. ‘I have digs just off Gloucester Road,’ she said. ‘They were recommended by another Liverpudlian. An actress actually. She’s… quite well known… not only from the stage… but also from films and the telly,’ she wheezed.

‘So what do you do?’ asked Mrs Sinclair.

Maggie did not immediately reply, but took a few shaky breaths before answering. ‘I’m a model. I was on my way back to my digs… from a photoshoot.’ She took another mouthful of tea and swallowed.

Mrs Sinclair fixed her with a stare. ‘I reckon you need to see a doctor. Pity you couldn’t have gone along with the boy’s father to the hospital, but no doubt the Outpatients’ will be inundated with flu sufferers in this weather. Besides, he has enough on his plate at the moment. His wife is very ill. She could die.’

Maggie flushed. ‘I wasn’t expecting him to help me any more than he has already,’ she said. ‘And, as soon as I’ve finished my tea, I’ll be out of your way.’

‘If you think you can manage on your own, that’ll suit me. The wee laddie has had enough upset, and seeing a strange face might start him off crying again. He misses his mother.’

‘What a shame! How old is he?’

‘I’ve been told he’ll be five this year.’

‘I have a nephew, Owen, who’ll be five this year, too. He’s my brother, Jared, and his wife, Emma’s son.’ Maggie drained her cup and, placing a hand on the arm of the sofa, she managed to stand up unaided. She reached for her holdall. ‘Thanks for the tea and – and thank the boy’s father for his help for me, if you would.’

Still feeling unsteady on her feet, and a mite dizzy, Maggie crossed to the door, opened it, said goodbye and left. As the smog swirled about her, she almost wished herself back inside the basement flat, but she knew she had to get back to her lodgings.

Afterwards, Maggie could never recall that nightmarish journey back to her digs without a feeling of horror. It was such a relief to be welcomed inside the lodging house by her landlady, who hustled Maggie upstairs to her bedsit and helped her undress and into her nightie. She tucked her into bed, saying she would call the doctor.

But it was not until the following day that the doctor was able to visit. He sounded her chest and looked grave and told her she had acute bronchitis and that – although he would like to see her in hospital – she was going to have to stay where she was as the hospitals were full of flu patients. Maggie’s agent phoned, but they did not get to speak as Mrs Cooling told her that Maggie was not allowed out of bed.

A fortnight passed before Maggie was allowed up, and during those days she wondered if she had dreamt up the man and woman who had come to her aid and the basement flat with the boy fast asleep on the sofa.

Eventually Maggie did get to speak to her agent, and told her that the doctor was insisting that she visit the nearest hospital for a chest X-ray as soon as possible. Despite her fear that the machine might discover something nasty, Maggie did not argue with him.

As it was, she did have some cause to worry, as the X-ray showed up an old TB scar on her lung. Apparently there was no mention of it in her medical records and that puzzled him. She had no idea how she had come by such a scar and, as her mother was no longer available to consult on the subject, she could only tell the doctor that her mother had avoided doctors and hospitals like the plague, and would dose Maggie with her own remedies, like so many people did before the days of the National Health Service.

The doctor told Maggie that it was a miracle she had survived this latest bout of bronchitis, and that she was going to have to take more care of herself. She must give up smoking, put on some weight, and move out of London to a place where the air was cleaner and fresher.

To say that Maggie was dismayed was an understatement. She had dreamed of a career in modelling since she was a schoolgirl and, although the reality had proved discouraging at times, she had no idea what else she could do. It had been a hard slog gaining experience in her chosen career, and sometimes an employer had considered a free meal or a gift of the clothes one had modelled sufficient payment. Still, Maggie was not ready to quit just yet.

Fortunately her mother, Elsie, had left her some money, which was in a trust fund managed by her brother Jared until she was twenty-one. So she turned to him if she was ever short of the readies to pay the rent. But he was careful with her money and only allowed her so much a month.

If only she could hear from Norman, saying that his ship had docked and he was coming to London to take her out, she would feel so much better. She would be able to discuss her situation with him and, in so doing, learn exactly where she stood with him. Hopefully he would ask her to marry him and, what with him spending so much time at sea, she would be able to carry on with her modelling career for a while.

Filled with hope at the prospect of a more settled life, she wrote to him again, an extremely loving letter. While she waited to hear from him, she decided that she seriously needed to give up smoking. Maybe this time it would not be so difficult, because she knew now that her life really depended on her doing so.

Two

Dear Maggie,

Forgive me for not writing before but I haven’t found it easy to tell you my latest news, but hopefully you will understand that these things happen and none of us can foretell the future despite those fortune-tellers with their crystal balls and the horoscope pages in the magazines you sometimes appear in.

Maggie’s heart had started to thud as soon as she read the words ‘hopefully you will understand’, but she knew she had no choice but to read on. The letter had arrived the day after she had posted hers to Norm, so his could not possibly be in response to the one she had sent. Her mouth felt dry as her eyes scanned the lines of scrawling writing; by the time she had reached the end, she was desperate for a cigarette.

There were none in the flat because she had refrained from buying any after making the decision to give up smoking. Although it was only nine in the morning and she had a job to go to, she poured herself a glass of Wincarnis tonic wine that her landlady had bought her. Apparently Queen Victoria had enjoyed a glass in her day. Only after Maggie had drained the glass did she feel up to reading the second paragraph again.

I’ve met someone else and have asked her to marry me, so we’re getting engaged. We have so many things in common that it’s unbelievable. I’d feel really bad about this if I didn’t know your career in modelling has always been more important to you than settling down and having a family. I hope we can remain friends. Wish me well. Norman.

Maggie swore vehemently and was sorely tempted to smash the glass in the hearth, only the sensible side of herself told her that she would have to clear it up and she had no time for that. The fashion show was due to take place in a couple of hours and her agent had warned her that she had to turn up at the hotel on Bayswater Road in plenty of time. She scrunched up Norm’s letter and flung it in the wastepaper bin and burst into tears.

She sobbed for what seemed ages, but eventually there were no tears left. She scrubbed her cheeks with a tissue and it was then she caught sight of the clock and gasped, knowing she had to pull herself together. ‘Sod him!’ she said loudly. ‘There are more fish in the sea than you, Norman Marshall!’

She went and washed her face and gently patted it dry with a towel before sitting down and carefully applying make-up. Then she placed everything she needed in a holdall and headed for the Tube station. As she was about to pass a corner shop, she hesitated. Then, with a toss of her shoulder-length blonde hair, she went inside and bought a packet of cigarettes. To salve her conscience she only bought five. On the way out she was so occupied in fumbling for a cigarette that she collided into someone and dropped both the packet and the cigarette. She bent to pick them up, only to bump heads with the man.

‘Sorry,’ she said, picking up the packet.

‘It’s all right.’ He picked up the cigarette and handed it to her.

‘Thanks.’ She placed it between her lips with a trembling hand. Then she patted her coat pockets in search of her lighter, only to remember she did not have one with her. ‘Damn!’ she muttered.

‘Want a light?’ He struck a match and held it out to her.

Maggie gazed at the man’s bearded face and was reminded of the clarinettist, Acker Bilk, with his neat goatee beard. Although this man was dressed casually in a sky-blue Sloppy Joe with the sleeves rolled up and black corduroy trousers. His beard was a bit scrappier than the jazz musician’s and tawny in colour instead of black. Also his hair was fair and curled beneath a cloth cap. Definitely not as smartly dressed as Aker, who, with his distinctive striped waistcoat and bowler hat, was a real snappy dresser.

‘I really appreciate this,’ she said, cupping her hand around his and lighting her cigarette at the match’s flame.

‘You’re welcome.’ He blew out the match and handed the box to her. ‘You can keep them.’

She took the matches and thanked him. He smiled and vanished inside the shop. She stood a moment, drawing smoke into her lungs. She felt her chest heave but told herself one or even two cigarettes were not going to cause any damage. She thought about the man as she picked up her holdall and walked on, thinking that there was something familiar about him, but perhaps that was because of his resemblance to the famous musician. She hurried along the pavement, thinking about Norm and how he always grew a beard while at sea. She remembered how it had felt when his beard had brushed against her cheek before he shaved it off. Tears filled her eyes as she thought about her ex-boyfriend being with another woman who was now his fiancée.

She finished her cigarette and stubbed the butt out with her heel, grinding it and imagining it was Norm’s face. Then she fumbled in her pocket for the packet of cigarettes she had bought and the matches the man had given her. She lit another cigarette and told herself that Norm was not worth crying over. What kind of man was it who finished with a girl by letter? He was a cad!

Maggie decided that if she ever fell in love again it would certainly not be with a sailor. Despite the doctor’s warning, she would stay in London and concentrate on her modelling career and become famous. On the heels of the thought, she was gripped by a feeling of impending disaster, and for a moment felt she could not breathe. She had barely smoked the cigarette when she tossed it away and told herself that surely life couldn’t get any worse.

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As Maggie made for the room set aside as a changing room in the hotel near Hyde Park, she wanted nothing more than to get out of the building. She had a splitting headache and felt sick. Having arrived late at the hotel, she had not only been ticked off but told that she stank of cigarettes. She had blurted out, ‘Since when has smoking been a sin?’

Of course, Maggie knew that not only should she have kept her mouth shut, but that she should never have smoked or drunk that single glass of tonic wine on an empty stomach. Her sister, Dot, would have rolled her eyes and demanded to know where her brains were. As for Maggie’s cousin, Betty, she would have told her she was an idiot.

One of the reasons Maggie had so wanted to get away from her family was because, being the youngest, the older siblings thought they had the right to tell her what to do – and she had hated it. She had been made up when she’d heard that Betty had married a Yank, Stuart Anderson,